


I Like It

by Khaelis



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21724441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaelis/pseuds/Khaelis
Summary: Of course he would notice her nails
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller
Comments: 7
Kudos: 116





	I Like It

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> There's a first time for everything, so here's a short Alec/Ellie oneshot!  
> Unfortunately I don't have time right now to write much more than this kind of little things - please forgive the lack of recent updates on my other works!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this one! :-)

* * *

“You’ve painted your nails.”

  
  


He noticed. Not that he liked it - not that he didn’t like it either. He was… Indifferent to the fact. Or at least he would have liked to be indifferent. He wasn’t. Not exactly. He noticed the dark red on her nails and he believed that was the first time in forever he saw her wearing anything else that the natural shade of her skin, the dark brown of her eyes, the deep chestnut of her curls. It looked just that.  _ Unnatural _ . 

She seemed to know it, too. She looked self-conscious. Curling her fingers to try and hide the tips in her palms, pulling her sleeves down, shoving her hands in her trousers pockets when she realized nothing else would hide the dark red. 

  
  


“No.”

  
  


It was a curt answer. She was annoyed that he had even mentioned it. He was annoyed that she wouldn’t develop her answer and give him something more satisfying than a single-syllable word. Not that he cared anyway.  _ Indifferent _ . Except not really. He didn’t like it. Why would her nails be red on a Monday morning? That was what he didn’t like. The fact that, maybe, there had been more than just painted nails on that Saturday night. A dress. The black one he saw her wear once - modest, but elegant. Heels. Black and varnished, just high enough to shape her thighs under the black of her dress. Discreet lipstick, whose colour matched the one on her nails. Foundation and mascara. Jewelry - just like her, precious but not ostentatious, simple but beautiful.

He had told her he had to work on that Saturday night. Another lost opportunity. He didn’t get to see her wearing all those things. He wished he had. He envied the man who had got to see that side of her - because of course, for what other reason but seeing a man would she have painted her nails dark red?. The more he imagined her in that dress, in those shoes, the sparkle of a single small diamond cushioned between her clavicles, the shine of a single ring on her finger, the chestnut curls he knew she often let fall around her face when she wasn’t at work… The more he thought about it, the more precise the picture became in his mind, like a negative photograph slowly morphing into a colourful silhouette. The more he liked the dark red of her nails. The more he liked that colour. The more he regretted not spending that Saturday night with her.

  
  


“I like it.”

  
  


He didn’t look at her when he said that. Scared that his face or his tight smile would betray his emotions. One in particular.  _ Jealousy _ . He kept staring at the blank screen, pretended to type a few words, cleared his throat. He tried to ignore it when her hands crawled out of her pockets but his eyes had to dart to look at the dark red on her nails. 

  
  


“You like it?”

  
  


He didn’t miss the surprise in her voice. Of course she wouldn’t have believed him. He had always been a man sparing with praise. Compliments just had this tendency to burn his tongue and make his wince - inwardly, most of the times, but wince all the same.

  
  


“I do. Not that you need any of that.”

  
  


That was about the best compliment he could come up with. And she knew it. 

She gave him a small smile, a silent  _ thank you _ . He gave her a small nod, a silent _ you’re welcome _ .

  
  


Two weeks later, he finally got the courage to invite her to the restaurant - cliché, he believed. She insisted they didn’t go anywhere too fancy, because neither of them was into fancy things. So they were sat there, on a Saturday night, at a table in a small joint lost in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere, so they didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing them, lost, so they didn’t have to worry about anyone finding them. 

She was wearing her dress and her heels. A bit of lipstick, a bit of foundation. Simple, but beautiful. There wasn’t any candle to make her necklace sparkle or her silver ring shine. The glint in her dark brown eyes was enough anyway. He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t remember how, or when, or why he had even asked her on a date - well, when her stomach had grumbled in the middle of the day, he had only awkwardly asked,  _ ‘spose the stomach on legs you are can’t wait until Saturday, can it? _ and thank God she spoke his language because she understood, called him a wanker and simply answered, _ eight o’clock, don’t be late. _

That had settled it. It was very…  _ Them _ . 

They were sat there, in that small joint, like the two colleagues they usually were at the station. Except she was wearing a dress. And he was wearing a dark blue suit. 

Oh. Also. 

Their fingers were intertwined. His right hand, her left hand. Long fingers hooked around smaller ones. Her thumb wrapped around his. Nail dark red. He liked this colour. It was a nice colour. But more than a colour, it was the warmth of her skin and the softness of her touch that made her hand nice to hold. He liked the colour.

He just hoped he would still be holding that warm and soft hand when the dark red would be long gone.

* * *


End file.
